


In Exchange for Sweeties

by zed_azrael



Category: The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: M/M, Non Consensual, Pedophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zed_azrael/pseuds/zed_azrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin was a boy once. Then he met Mr. Plover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Still in progress!
> 
> This piece is broken into little snippets, which I'll write whenever inspiration hits.
> 
> (also available on [livejournal](http://zed-azrael.livejournal.com/60734.htm).)

The man is in the courtyard when Martin first meets him, lounging on a cast-iron bench with a book in hand and a tea set by his side. The expression on his face is not so much shock as it is puzzlement at the sudden appearance of a young boy crawling out from the hedges that wall the area, soil smeared on his hands and cheeks and pale, bare legs.

Martin knows not to talk to strangers; Mother scolds Rupert once a fortnight about his easy chatter with the people in the village. Martin is not as quick to smile, much less share thoughts.

But the biscuits sitting beside the tea set are tempting, frosted with powdered sugar and filled with sparkling raspberry preserves. He doesn’t remember the last time he tasted something so decadent. Martin feels his mouth water.

“Do you want a cookie?” the man asks, immediately taking note of Martin’s wandering gaze. Cookie, he says in his gentle, wheedling voice. His accent is funny, different, and not in a way that Martin is used to. It adds a hardness to the vowels, a certain amount of force and twang that weighs down the words with clumsiness. The accent would be unpleasant if the voice was not so inviting.

The man puts his book aside, facedown, its spine creasing where the pages split. He takes the plate of biscuits off the tray and rises to his feet, holding out the treats in offering. “Here, you can have a cookie. You can have them all.” He crouches slightly, holding one out and waving it like a stick for a dog.

He takes a step forward and Martin scrambles to his feet, trampling a bed of geraniums and cutting his arm on the thorns of a nearby rosebush. The man’s earnest smile falls and his eyes go a little wide. “Are you all right?” He drops the plate on the bench and strides forward, crossing the few metres between them before Martin can even begin to think of bolting.

The touch on Martin’s arm is feather-light, just glancing the skin. Martin shrinks away from him, shoulders hunching up to kiss the line of his neck. The man pulls his hand away, fingers splayed and palm exposed in a gesture of peace. “I won’t hurt you,” he says, voice low. His eyes are dark beneath round spectacles and in this proximity, Martin can see the wrinkles in his forehead and the grey hairs that creep along the man’s hairline, weaving years into his eyebrows. The preserves in the biscuit shine like blood red rubies.

Shyly, without saying a word, Martin reaches out a tentative hand and takes the biscuit from the man, grasping it in his dirty fingers. He nibbles on the corner of the biscuit. The powdered sugar is sticky and sweet on his lips as he chews and the man looks pleased.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Plover owns a great deal of books, many of which have pages that are frail and yellowed with age. From his father, he explained, dragging a finger along the spine of one thick, leather-bound novel, eyes faraway and a little sad. “You know,” he says to Martin one day, while they are sitting in the courtyard, “when I was about your age, my father used to sit me in his lap and read to me before bed.” There’s a short stack of weathered paperbacks standing between the two of them and Martin eyes them sceptically, half-expecting them to disintegrate beneath a single touch. Mr. Plover glances down at his lap, where he holds a plate of powdered biscuits and offers Martin one.

“Would you like to hear the stories my father read to me?” Mr. Plover asks, and Martin only nods; he is already chewing on a biscuit and his mother taught him never to talk with his mouth full.

Mr. Plover isn’t looking at Martin, but down at the little fragile pile of books. The lines in his forehead crease and a glint in his spectacles conceals his eyes. “Yes,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Martin. “Yes, I think we’ll read this one today.” The book he selects easily could be older than Martin. The pages are falling out and the paste that once held the book together has long since given out. Martin’s nose twitches a little when Mr. Plover opens it, fingers gliding over the printed words with reverence. The book smells musty and a little unclean.

The story Mr. Plover selects is one that Martin is familiar with: a tale of a girl and a wolf and a red cape.

How stupid the girl is, Martin thinks to himself as he licks the sugar off his fingers. How stupid she is not to have done something to protect herself. How stupid she is not to have realised that it was not her grandmother in the bed, but the wolf.

Mr. Plover says, “Martin, do you want a napkin?” and Martin nods his head yes and takes another biscuit.


End file.
